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Sawyer might be angry with me in real life, but the pelican always loved me.
After the game, exhilarated from our big win, I dumped my pompons in the van and snatched Sawyer’s bag for his costume. I wanted an excuse to wait outside the locker room for him. I needed to know whether he was still mad, or the drive back would kill me.
I stood to one side as the football players filed out of the locker room. Brody gave me a high five. Noah shook his freshly shampooed head very close to me, spraying me with water. Then Sawyer emerged in his gym shorts only, carrying the huge foam bird head in one hand, with the rest of the costume draped over his other arm like something dead.
“I brought your bag,” I called.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he walked over. “Hold this.” He handed me his costume and his head, trading for the bag. He fished a Pelicans T-shirt out of the bag and dove into it, biceps flexing as he pulled it over his head. I was sorry to see his bare chest go. Strangely silent, he took the costume from me and stuffed it into the bag.
I ventured, “You could come back to the cheerleader van for the ride home. I’m sitting with Harper, but we could all three move to the back.” As if we were all close friends, and this was the most normal suggestion in the world.
He slung the strap of the bag over his shoulder and eyed me. “That’s okay. I’ll ride with the team.”
“No, you won’t,” a football player called as he passed.
“The fuck you will,” another voice agreed.
Sawyer’s eyes never left my face. He said more quietly, “I’ll ride with the band. Thanks, though.”
“All right.” I stood there uncertainly. He shifted his bag from one shoulder to the other, looking past me at the football players and marching band members milling around the parking lot, not quite ready to board the buses for another long drive. Finally I burst out, “We need to talk.”
“Or, you need to talk,” he said, “obviously.”
I crossed my arms. “That’s exactly what we need to talk about: this attitude of yours.”
“Oh, my attitude,” he said bitterly.
“You’re in the costume and you’re nice to me. You . . .” I glanced at the football players limping by and lowered my voice. “You come on to me.”
“You like that, do you?” he sneered. “When I’m dressed up like a giant bird? That is completely illegal in the state of Florida.”
I held my hands out flat. He was proving my point for me. “Then you get out of the suit, and you’re an asshole, like now. I don’t want to do this dance with you anymore. If this is how you feel about me, stay away from me and keep your hands off me, suit or no suit.” I turned my back on him and stomped toward the van.
As I went, my head was swimming with what had just happened. I wasn’t even sure where my sudden anger had come from. It was just so frustrating for Sawyer to embrace me like I was his favorite—and the instant I tried to show him I felt the same way, he lashed out at me. I wasn’t going to do it anymore.
And I wasn’t going to stop and peer back at him, either, because that would show him how much I cared—again. Five steps later, I couldn’t help it. I looked over my shoulder.
He stood where I’d left him, gazing down at his shoes like he was trying to figure out one of Ms. Reynolds’s calculus equations.
And now I was caught between Good, I’ve hurt him and Oh, no, I’ve hurt him.
Disgusted with myself, I trudged up the steps of the van, only to see that some strange girl had taken the seat next to mine. It took me a split second to recognize Harper.
She was like a hand-knitted scarf. Breaking up with Kennedy and dating Brody over the past month had unraveled her, but she was made of gorgeous yarn. Now she was knitting herself back together in a new pattern. This meant I did a double take sometimes when I saw her, because she wasn’t always wearing her signature glasses with a retro dress. Without them, she was a pretty, dark-haired girl I’d never met.
Tonight her long hair was pulled into a high ponytail. She wore a simple tank top and a few crazy necklaces with olive cargo pants. She looked as beautiful as ever, only with a lot of the effort taken out—as if she was finally more concerned with her photography projects and her sweet boyfriend than her own self-image. I envied her.
The first thing out of her mouth was “Where’s Sawyer?” She stood up to let me into the seat.
Flopping down next to her, I grumbled, “On the band bus, I guess. Why?”
“Brody told me the football team kicked him off their bus, and Sawyer said he was going to hitch a ride with the cheerleaders. That’s the main reason I wanted to ride back with y’all. I thought I could get some candids for the yearbook before we leave, while the lights are still on. Sawyer is a walking, talking photo op.”
“He was going to ride with us to the game,” I said, “but he rode on the senior band bus.”
She gave me a skeptical look. “But he was all over you during the game.”
“That’s because he loves me with his costume on, and he hates me when he takes it off.”
“I don’t think he hates you when he takes his costume off,” she said.
I shrugged through the first part of her sentence and talked through the rest. “I don’t care anymore.” As the van’s engine rumbled to life and the overhead lights blinked out, I turned to the window and watched the distance grow between us and all our school buses. I had no idea which one Sawyer was on, or whether he was staring out his own window as our van pulled away into the dark.
